


Out of Order (Is There Something Wrong With Us?)

by peanutbutterpianist



Series: Firsts Are Complicated (Should They Be?) [10]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Boys In Love, Day 1, Day 4, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exploration, First Time, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, NSFW, NSFW Victuuri Week 2017, Past Sexual Abuse, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Top Katsuki Yuuri, Victor's Potty Mouth, communication is important kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-18 08:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11287470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutbutterpianist/pseuds/peanutbutterpianist
Summary: "Yuuri shut the refrigerator door. Stupid, stupid Eros. He wasn’t even good at Eros, for crying out loud.Thank God they hadn’t actually tried anything in the kitchen, despite Victor’s frequent hinting, because then there’d be no way in hell Yuuri would be able to make coffee normally ever again.Not that he was doing a great job right then anyway."There are some demons lurking in both Yuuri's and Victor's closets that neither quite expected.





	1. Part One: More

**Author's Note:**

> So many apologies. So. Many. Apologies. This whole monster was already written well over a month ago, but thanks to finals and job interviews and other fun adult-y things, I wasn't able to get this decently proofread until now. So, part one of three of Victor and Yuuri's First Time is FINALLY HERE, the other two will shortly follow. Thank-you all for your patience, I hope this (and the following chapters) meet your expectations and are as satisfying for you as they were for me to write.
> 
> Warnings for smut in chapter two, as well as potential triggers--past sexual roughness/violence, issues with intimate partners, and breakdowns involved in chapter two. Chapter one is pretty tame though, no warnings I can think of (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong there).
> 
> Thank-you again, gentle reader. Enjoy!

            After hours and days and _weeks_ of talking about Alexei and Davi and Sergei and Evan and a line of nameless faces that had shared Victor’s body in his youth ( _Don_ _’t talk like you_ _’re an old man_ , Yuuri had hissed once, giggling despite himself because _good God why are you pouting like that_ ), something was still— _still!_ —missing. At least, Yuuri thought so, even as he felt his fiancé sneak a pair of chilled, goose-pimpled arms under his shirt to wrap around his bare midriff. Yuuri had been _trying_ to make coffee, _dammit_. But who could focus on _coffee_ with a rather attractive Russian’s rather attractive mouth on their _neck?_ Now the dark-roasted grounds were all over the counter and Yuuri had to fight that inner battle between curling back up in their warm bed, _like he wanted_ , and getting himself out of the apartment in time for practice, _like a responsible adult should_. He’d already had that argument with himself twice that morning, and frankly wasn’t certain that the _responsible_ _adult_ in him could win a third time if Victor kept pressing his face into his shoulder blades like that, and shivering like that, and _breathing_ like that and… _God_ , it wasn’t _fair_.

            Not that he could _actually_ be mad at his fiancé. Never. At least, not _really_ _…_ or at least, not for long. Especially not over little things like this. Not even that time that a red sweater ended up in a wash load with their favorite white bath towels: Yuuri had learned to like pink rather quickly after seeing Victor’s repentant face, his too-pretty eyes downcast and his nose and cheekbones flushed almost the exact color their towels had become.

            Victor had actually been _kind of cute_ , which certainly didn’t hurt Victor’s cause any.

            _Ahem._

            Yuuri wasn’t even really mad when the man had all but broken down the door to the bathroom once when Yuuri had been having a mid-night panic attack a month or so ago. Sure, Victor was still figuring out what to do—or _not_ do, honestly—when these things happened, but _hell_ , so was Yuuri, and he’d been the one living with them for the past couple of decades. And Victor’s heart was always in the right place: scared and uncertain and floundering sometimes, sure, but in the right place. He was _trying_.

            _God,_ he was trying—running around the apartment in a flurry, making tea and gathering blankets and looking for medication that hadn’t been refilled and brushing away tears from those too-pretty eyes when Yuuri asked for _space_ and _quiet_ but giving them both to Yuuri anyway with a stiff smile—

Yuuri couldn’t believe it all, sometimes.

            So Yuuri certainly couldn’t be mad now, either. Even as his motivation level for the morning was slipping into the sink, down the drain. He brushed the mess of coffee grounds into the sink with practiced ease and twisted his neck to steal a kiss that tasted of the familiar tang of morning breath. “Go take a hot shower, you’re freezing,” he ordered, voice soft against the shell of Victor’s ear and _whoops_ , his resolve was starting to lose its hold _already_. “I’ll have the coffee ready by the time you’re out.” Victor mumbled some sort of sleepy protest, but Yuuri just pushed him away gently, giving an extra firm tap to his lover’s pale, not-quite-bare buttcheek. “Brush your teeth while you’re at it,” he added, “And remind me to buy you better fitting briefs this week; I think those shrunk.” There was a cheeky lilt to his voice, and he noted with a surge of pride that the Russian’s ears were suddenly quite rosy. Victor didn’t so much trudge to the bathroom as _spring_ toward it, shoulders held a little straighter and steps a little too small and clumsy for his height. _Ha!_ And he hadn’t even had his coffee yet—goodness, Victor was so _frustrating_ in the morning. Yuuri had to fight himself _stupidly hard_ to keep from chasing the Russian down, dragging him back to bed to burrow into his broad chest, to spend the day lazily kissing his bubblegum lips and telling dumb stories and just breathing together and petting Makkachin together and…

            Ah, _damn it._

            Yuuri’s thoughts wandered as the coffee pot gurgled, and he rummaged around the fridge, shivering at the compounded cold. Their bed sounded _so good_ right then, but he _couldn_ _’t_ keep thinking about it. Because he was a _responsible adult_ who had to _practice_ because Victor was counting on him to do well this next season—and Victor himself was already spread so thin, with his own comeback on top of coaching Yuuri.

Yuuri couldn’t afford to risk falling behind, so he couldn’t keep thinking about _their bed_ and _their blankets_ and _their dog_ and…

_Dammit._

So as he reached for the milk, Yuuri thought instead about the unopened bottle of lube in middle drawer of their nightstand, and the box of plain condoms that had never seen the light of day. (Literally: it had been bought a couple of months ago during a buzzed trip to the convenience store on their way home from dinner with Georgi. It somehow ended up in the back of the drawer, never to be touched again.) He recalled having to confer with Victor—who had been shifting from one foot to the other and then back again—over what the labels said in Cyrillic.

            Wait, what the _hell_ —all he wanted was _milk_ for their coffee and now he was trying to remember what kind of lube he’d bought and reliving the feel of Victor’s asscheek in his hand mere moments ago and thinking about _condoms_. _Seriously_. What the _actual hell?_

            _Damn Eros._

            Yuuri shut the refrigerator door. Stupid, _stupid_ Eros. He wasn’t even _good at_ Eros, for crying out loud.

            Yuuri wasn’t suave like Victor—if Victor could even really be called _suave_. It really depended on the moment, Yuuri mused with a smirk that he hid behind the sugar bowl as he picked it up.

Yuuri wasn’t _suave_ like Victor’s previous ‘encounters’, either. He didn’t feel sexy or alluring or powerful (well, most of the time, anyway; it was amazing what vodka could do, which would explain the impulsive purchase of that box of condoms, lonely and untouched in the drawer and— _damn,_ why was he _still_ thinking about _condoms, goddammit_ , he’s supposed to be making _coffee_ ). But that was… _okay_ , he was discovering. Slowly.

            It was okay, Yuuri thought, because Yuuri wasn’t one of Victor’s encounters, right? He wasn’t just a bedmate—or even a _good_ bedmate, really, because anxiety could seriously mess up a person’s sleep cycle, after all. He wasn’t with Victor for sex—otherwise, _hell_ , there’s no way he’d still be here in this apartment, right? With their record of _not-doing-anything? Hah._

But as for what Yuuri _was_ …well, Yuuri was Victor’s _fianc_ _é_. Right? He was Victor’s _dorogoy_ and _solnyshko_ and _moye serdtse_ and all sorts of other equally embarrassing, sugary Russian endearments that Yuuri barely understood. He was there to love Victor just as much as Victor loved him, if not more so ( _probably more so_ , Yuuri thought, but that was an argument they’d had too often already). So comparing himself to Victor’s past experiences…well, it was kind of like judging a quad Salchow with the same standards as swimming a hundred meters of butterfly. _Right?_

Right.

            But there was still the fact that they hadn’t… _erm_ , well, they hadn’t _really_ done it yet.

_It._

Okay, so they’d fooled around a few times with their hands, usually clumsy and rushed, but always feeling sated and sticky and warm and _wonderful_ afterward. Which was actually pretty _nice_ , Yuuri thought with a flush, absently playing with a spoon. _Great_ , even. Sometimes they took care of things in the shower (which was dangerous but required less cleanup), sometimes in bed with Makkachin locked out the room…even once against the front door because they just _couldn_ _’t_ wait any longer (their poor suits, though; Yuuri felt terrible for whoever had been working at the dry cleaners that week).

Thank God they hadn’t _actually_ tried anything in the kitchen, despite Victor’s frequent hinting, because then there’d be _no way in hell_ Yuuri would be able to make coffee normally ever again.

Not that he was doing a great job right then anyway, but _whatever._

            Yuuri wondered _why_ Victor was waiting, if he actually _wanted_ Yuuri as much as he said he did, just about _every single day_. What was the problem? Okay, so Yuuri knew that he wasn’t a perfect lover (Victor always said otherwise, but _hell,_ Victor thought Yuuri looked ‘hot’ in boxers and an oversized t-shirt with a picture of a baby sloth and about twenty holes in it). He was barely even a lover _at all._ He _knew_ that. But he was getting better with little touches and deep kisses, with not scurrying to the other end of the bed like a spider at the first _hint_ of dirty talk. He rather _liked_ getting nibbled on now—he tried not to shy away or cover his face when Victor tugged down his briefs or nuzzled his thigh like a kitten. He was even getting pretty good at…at _taking care_ of Victor. He knew when to be gentle, and where to nip and tease, and where he could grip a little tighter on the man’s pale hips to leave subtle almost-bruises that he could revisit the next day…and _oh,_ just a _touch_ could draw these fantastic, breathy _gasps_ while working together at the rink without anyone else suspecting a thing.

_Heh. That_ was a rather unexpected plus, Yuuri thought. His fingertips itched a little bit as they fiddled with the now-warm handle of the spoon.

            _Hmm_.

            He knew he was good with his tongue—Victor praised him _all the damn time_ over it—and he’d had started figuring out to get Victor splayed out on their bed, _begging_ , with sheet-white legs splayed stupidly wide and a bright grin which would crossfade into the most breathless looks of _adoration_ Yuuri had _ever_ seen and…

            So Yuuri wasn’t exactly _bad_ at all of this, either. And Victor seemed plenty happy with things as they were. Right?

But Yuuri kind of…kind of _wanted_ _…more? Maybe?_

_Maybe_. Maybe…maybe a little bit _more_ than _maybe_.

Was that _okay?_

            Maybe…maybe _he_ should go ahead and just try to do… _things_. Seeing as Victor didn’t seem to be pushing _forward_ so much lately…it was worth a try, right?  
            But Yuuri had no experience with those sort of…er, _things_. What if he _hurt_ Victor? What if it wasn’t good? What if Victor ended up _not liking it?_

            Yuuri frowned at himself, pouring the brewed coffee into a pair of mugs: one with a smiling, tongue-sticking-out emoji, the other printed with its brightly blushing counterpart. He put milk and sugar into the first mug, and just milk alone into the other—Yuuri couldn’t bring himself to take it black like Yakov recommends, though he’s tried. He caught his firm-faced reflection in the dark liquid just before the milk swirled it into caramel-colored perfection, just the way both he and Victor like it.

            He wouldn’t _ever_ hurt Victor—that was _impossible_. He’d never allow it. It wouldn’t happen. Never. _Period._ And even if Yuuri was inexperienced in such _things_ …well, he’d been pretty inexperienced with just about _everything_ when they’d first started, anyway (these days, he was certain that no amount of experience could really have prepared him for Victor _at_ _all_ ).

They’d managed so far, regardless of the gap in their levels of experience, because Victor always met him right were he was. Victor was actually…kind of _sweet,_ honestly _._ Never _that_ demanding, always giving too much, just boyishly happy to even _be_ together.

Which was surprising and kind of…well, _odd,_ Yuuri thought.

Yuuri had asked for a kiss mid-way through their first time taking care of some, erm, _tension_. Awkwardly so, because he’d wanted something _new_ , but he’d also wanted— _needed_ —to be kissed, because that was something familiar. He didn’t know much about their _parts_ and what to _do_ with them, but he knew Victor’s lips and Victor’s breath and so that made everything _that much better_. But he hadn’t really known what _else_ he’d wanted.

It was a Wednesday night: Yuuri had been sore from a few falls during practice, but he’d…he’d been on edge and scared and he’d _wanted_.

That was probably the most vulnerable Victor had ever seen him up to that point, which was saying a lot. Yuuri had felt like he’d taken a rather rough slice of out his heart and handed it over, without any sort of fancy wrapping or a _romantic_ occasion to warrant it. Of course, Victor had licked his tears away first— _God,_ when did _licking_ apply to anything beyond ice cream, without being _gross?_ —but he’d held all of Yuuri together so gently and kept all of him so safe.

It hadn’t been bad at all.

From then on, Victor had made sure to kiss him _every_ time, wherever they were, whatever they did, dutifully taking care of the heart in his care. _Good_ care, the absolute _best_ of care, Yuuri thought, bringing a finger to his lips absentmindedly. And now, these past few weeks, with every talk they had about Victor’s past escapades under the cover of darkness or over takeout in the living room or in the shower with soap bubbles clinging to their eyebrows, Victor was giving Yuuri fleeting glimpses of his own heart.

Or more like, what Victor _thought_ about his own heart.

            Victor thought it _wasn_ _’t_ _pretty_ , deep down: he said it all the time, like a mantra, usually paired with an empty laugh or an _I_ _’m sorry_ and sometimes a _nevermind, it_ _’s nothing_.

Maybe…maybe _it_ _’s not pretty_ meant something different in Russian. Maybe there was something in English that wasn’t making sense, something that got lost in translation. Maybe Yuuri just didn’t _get it._ But _still_. It _hurt_ to hear it.

Victor would make these little comments about what others had called him. _A bit cold, a bit clueless_. He’d talk about himself. _A bit numb sometimes_ , kind of _raw_ and kind of _messed up_. He’d said once that he’d wondered if there was something _wrong, somewhere in there_ , tapping at his silvery head or gesturing vaguely to his chest.

            He’d always brush those comments off with a smile and a wave of his hand, but Yuuri’s heart only ached more every time because _was there something wrong in Victor?_

            Yuuri thought Victor was beautiful. Mostly _suave_ in public, effortlessly elegant…but then again, he watched children’s shows in Korean on a regular basis because he _still_ couldn’t tell the difference between Korean and Japanese. And even though he swung his hips like a model from the moment he stepped out of a hot shower onward, Victor also tended to blush and go quiet whenever Yuuri would reach for his hand. He was some kind of mushy-sweet somewhere just behind his graceful-but-sometimes-sharp edges…and it all was so _perfect,_ Yuuri thought, because _how could one man be so many different things._ But maybe Victor just didn’t see himself the way Yuuri did.

            Yuuri wondered if any of Victor’s former lovers had _any idea_ what they were missing. Most of them sounded…pretty awful, really. Except for Alexei.

            Victor talked about Alexei once, by name, after bumping into the man while jogging with Makkachin early one morning.

Alexei had been good to him, once upon a time. Victor wasn’t surprised, though, to find he’d married a nice French girl not too long ago. Alexei had met her at a market a year after moving away from St. Petersburg, after Victor had broken up with him. She was petite and soft-spoken and loved to paint—he showed Victor a few pictures of her in his wallet. Alexei had always been a little old-fashioned, after all, according to Victor.

The pair had moved to the outskirts of Rouen. They’d started gardening recently. And they were expecting their first child soon. Alexei couldn’t be happier, giggling as he showed Victor a blurry picture of an ultrasound—he was going to be a wonderful father to a beautiful little girl, Victor was sure of it.

He’d topped Alexei once, the one time Victor had tried that with a man. It hadn’t gone well. Alexei had actually _cried_ , and so they went back to simpler things for a few weeks, and then it was all over. Victor knew that Alexei really _did_ love him, but he didn’t quite feel the same way, and even _he_ couldn’t be _that_ cruel, he had told Yuuri with a weird sort of laugh. The sound had made Yuuri squirm and tug on Makkachin’s fur a little too harshly.

Victor let Alexei go all those years ago without a second thought, but he reported vehemently that he was _glad_ that his ex had only been passing through town now, because Victor hadn’t missed how the younger man’s eyes had lit up when they’d bumped shoulders on the street and _no._ There was no way he’d hurt Alexei again. Or his darling wife and child-on-the-way. _Absolutely not._

Yuuri felt oddly proud of him, even though Victor hung his head as though it were lead-heavy for a few hours after telling that story.

Women and Victor reportedly didn’t mix very well; there had only been two, and he’d only _actually_ _done_ _it_ with one of them. ‘Barely’, apparently. _Victor_ had been the one to cry that time, at the tender age of seventeen, and that had ended things before any real love could even begin. The girl was off and dating some exchange student from Spain the very next week.

The second had been some semblance of a friend: a worker at a rink he was visiting near Rome. She was pretty and tall with dark green eyes and a birdlike laugh. Victor had been hoping that he was at least bi, for the sake of family and his professional life and all the sneers of _pedik_ that rang through his ears as a schoolboy.

He proved himself _so_ wrong. So, _so wrong._ The girl wouldn’t so much as glance at him again after they’d tried and failed, and Victor went back home to St. Petersburg a week early with his head down and his heart an utter mess. Of _course_ , Yuuri sympathized with him—Victor had lost both a friend _and_ his right to feel comfortable at a major rink at the same time. Yuuri didn’t understand at all why Victor brushed off the incident so _casually_ in conversation.

Yakov had chastised him, as was expected, but was otherwise understanding, if not a bit saddened by the whole ordeal, in his own way.

            Everyone else had been a one-night stand, a sort-of-friend with benefits, or a product of boredom, drunkenness, and a hefty dose of seething _loneliness_ locked up tight in the background, Victor had said as he picked at his spinach salad.

            Yuuri couldn’t quite wrap his head around the idea of Victor being _lonely._ Even as he tried, it just _hurt_ think about it because it didn’t quite make sense.

            Except that _it_ _kind of did._

Victor hated that sex had little—if not _nothing_ —to do with love for those years. It had been fun, sure, but he’d never forgotten how _lonely_ — _damn,_ there was that word again—he’d been. He’d started going numb to it, bit by bit, until he stopped sleeping with people altogether—which made Yakov happy, at least, because then he’d started throwing himself even more fully into his polishing his skating.

The tabloids and fansites that Yuuri used to frequent obviously weren’t privy to _any_ of this. _Most desirable bachelor. Ladies_ _’ man. The one to catch._

It was _almost_ funny, if it didn’t _hurt_ so much to think about.

Nowadays, Victor _hated_ the fact that he’d been touched so much before Yuuri by people who cared nothing for him. He said it all the time now, it seemed. He would shrug whenever he’d see his own face on a magazine at the grocery, barking a semblance of a laugh, saying that the people who once took his body didn’t even remotely _know_ him, not _really_. Not the way Yuuri did. But _oh, sure,_ it had felt good at the time, made him feel a bit less alone for a while, apparently. And he’d laugh again, walking a little too stiffly away from the magazine rack to pluck a forbidden candy bar from the display with a wink.

Yuuri hadn’t been quite sure how to feel when Victor spilled all that on him. The past few weeks felt like _a lot_. It was a bit like pouring grape soda on a white dress—he _had_ to look at Victor differently now. Every single day, there was something new; the purple was spreading further and further, soaking what had at first been unblemished lace. There wasn’t exactly a way of going back to the way he’d seen the Russian man before.

It felt a little weird, thought not _exactly_ bad, per say. It _ached_ , but it wasn’t _terrible_. Because this was _Victor_ , the _real_ Victor, and he was grateful that Victor trusted him this much, even if it still seemed like there were a lot of holes in his stories and a lot of feelings that kept getting brushed over.

            A part of Yuuri _did_ feel kind of…kind of _what?_ Jealous? Possessive? Upset that he wasn’t the first to _be with Victor?_

Oh, but wait; they still hadn’t…hadn’t _been with each other_ , not _really_. _Hah_. So _no,_ of course that couldn’t be it. _Ha._

            Yuuri smacked himself mentally. This was getting a little ridiculous.

_Hmm_ , so maybe it wasn’t _that_ type of jealousy? Maybe it was more…

More like…

_Ah. Aha. That_ was what that prickling feeling was. Not jealousy. More like…more like just _hurt_. Because Victor had been _lonely. Fucking lonely._ So he’d gotten himself into some, er, _interesting_ messes, sometimes. But he’d been _lonely_ when he was younger, and throughout the peaks and valleys of his love life, and even afterward when he’d quit everything and thrown himself into the embrace of the ice alone.

Things made a lot of sense through that lens; they just _hurt_ a lot to think about, too. It wasn’t _fair._

            For what it was worth, Yuuri thought Victor was precious. He thought Victor’s heart was _doubly_ precious. And Victor’s heart had been, essentially, untouched, somehow.

            Which was kind of terrifying (because _damn_ , talk about _pressure_ ), but also…kind of _tragic_.

            Because Yuuri…well, Yuuri was twenty-four and inexperienced in a lot of things. Yuuri was awkward and guarded and not too drawn to people _that_ way. So if Yuuri’s heart had made it to this place relatively untouched…well, that was to be expected.

But Victor…Victor was twenty-eight, charming and gorgeous and a _sex god_ —at least, according to some, _erm,_ sources out there. But Victor’s heart had been untouched with the whole world watching as he charmed them with whatever _act_ they’d find entertaining.

            Yuuri was grateful, in some strange way, to Alexei. At least Alexei had _actually_ _loved_ Victor, and had wanted to carry Victor’s heart with that love. Victor might not have let him, but at least there had been _someone_ before Yuuri who had cared for Victor.

            But _still._ He’d still been _lonely._ That was an absolute _sin_ if Yuuri ever saw one.

            The door to the bathroom sprung open, rousing Yuuri from his thoughts with a violent start. Out popped his half-dressed fiancé, hair rebelliously sticking up every which way even as he brushed the damp strands down. Yuuri returned his attention to breakfast, ignoring the flutter in his chest that wanted to hum along with whatever his fiancé was half-singing in French. He cut up an apple, passed over the smiling mug of coffee to a giddy-looking Victor, and pondered over whether the yogurt in the fridge was still any good.

            It wasn’t.

 

            When they returned home late that afternoon, a steamy, shared shower was in order, as was a hot meal to ward off the abnormally fierce chill that neither seemed able to shake all day—which was odd, wasn’t it _supposed_ to be spring by now? Yuuri turned up the thermostat while Victor did the dishes (Yuuri kept an eye on him: Victor had a tendency to get distracted and start dancing around and subsequently drop glasses or the occasional plate. Not that he could ever be _truly_ upset, in any circumstance, but _still_ , they only had so many dishes).

            “Would you like to put on a movie, _solnyshko_?” Victor tossed over his shoulder, hunched over the sink with his sleeves rolled up past the crooks of his elbows. The lines of his jaw and along his neck were strung taught. “I can pull out some extra blankets from the closet.”

            Yuuri felt a little bold, just then; he padded into the kitchen, propping his back up against Victor’s and leaning into it. He felt the sharpness of Victor’s surprised inhale against his own spine, and relished how the firm mound of his fiancé’s behind fit _just so_ into the curve of his own back, just above his hips. “Hmm, I’d rather just go to bed early tonight. Is that okay?” His voice was low and a little coarse, but _not_ seductive, he was _sure_ of it. He wasn’t even _trying_ to sound sultry, and heaven knows how terribly he pulls of seduction when he’s actively _trying_ for it. _Hah._

            Victor, amazingly, didn’t break into a chuckle, or tease with an _Oh, my Yuuri, so bold tonight!_ or an _Of course, I_ _’ll cater to any of your fantasies, dorogoy_. His hands must have stopped moving, and all that could be heard for a moment was the running faucet, which Yuuri quickly forgot about—and subsequently didn’t even think to scold over. Victor just _gave_ a little bit, slumping against the counter, and Yuuri sank against him, feeling rather like jelly. The Russian’s frame had been rigid just the moment beforehand, but now he just breathed, long and deep and slow, and Yuuri tried to memorize what that felt like against his back through the two sets of flannel pajamas between them.

            _Mmm._ Better.

            “Yeah,” Victor rumbled at last, returning to the dishes, which clattered a bit, “Okay, that sounds perfect to me, too.” He didn’t sound…disappointed, not quite. But his voice had fallen to some sort of an exhausted murmur. _Ah._ So he’d guessed right, then.

When Yuuri made a move to walk away, a tiny whine just managed to catch his ear, and so he settled back with a smirk and a quiet huff. He let his thoughts drift aimlessly to the little jabs from Victor’s shoulder blades as he worked and the easy feel of his breathing and the vibrations buzzing in his chest as he hummed tunelessly to himself. He wondered briefly if Victor had _any_ idea just how loved he was in that moment.

Yuuri hoped so.

            They ambled through their nightly routines in companionable silence, punctuated by Makkachin’s contented groans as the poodle was given the traditional goodnight-belly-scritches and kisses behind the ears before curling up in the dog bed in the living room. Despite the cold, Victor still shed his shirt, getting stuck because he’d somehow forgotten to unbutton the top of it. Yuuri laughed quietly, assuring his love that, _no,_ he wasn’t going to suffocate and die in his own shirt, and planted a gossamer kiss to his paper-white belly button without really thinking about it. Yuuri was glad Victor couldn’t see his red face as he did so. He needed the extra minute it took to free the Russian from the heather material, which he used to let the minor embarrassment dissipate.

            They finally settled into bed at eight-seventeen, not quite ready for sleep, if anything could be assumed from how Victor had yet to flop across Yuuri’s torso and cling to him like an overgrown octopus. Which was fine, really; Yuuri wasn’t ready to nod off, either. There were things to…well, maybe not necessarily _do_ , but at least _say_.

If only he could get the nerve to say them.

            Wait. Why was that a problem, again? Yuuri reminded himself: he was _not_ one of Victor’s escapades, he was Victor’s _fianc_ _é_. And Victor _loved_ him. So if Yuuri was honest, surely Victor would be, too. If he asked for access to Victor’s heart, Victor surely wouldn’t deny him by now.

            _Right?_

            Right.

            Yuuri took a long, steadying breath, and he must have smiled, because Victor pressed the smallest of kisses to the corner of his mouth. It tickled a bit. When had he closed his eyes? _Oh well._ He opened them and was greeted by a half-lidded sea of turquoise and such a wonderful look of utter _peace_ that he almost considered letting things be for the night.

            Almost.

            “Victor,” he whispered. Victor smelled like the obnoxiously minty, cheap toothpaste from a _conbini_ in Hasetsu he’d brought along to Saint Petersburg. It tickled Yuuri’s throat. “Can I ask you something?”

            Victor looked…confused. He blinked his pale lashes and his brows scrunched up. “Ah, of course, Yuuri; what is it?”

            Yuuri took in the scent of mint for a long moment, letting it wash over him and snap his senses to attention. He rolled over from his side so that he was sort-of straddling his fiancé. His legs gripped around Victor’s midriff, and he tried to lean in close instead of sitting straight up—he wouldn’t be able to see Victor’s face well enough otherwise. He splayed out one hand on Victor’s chest, half for support and half just to feel the thrum of his heart, which had picked up its pace as he’d been essentially manhandled onto his back. It felt perfectly grounding, like all the encouragement Yuuri needed.

            “Victor.” Yuuri was so, _so_ glad that his voice, despite the low volume, was clear and solid. He drew a long breath. “I…I want to make love to you.” He swallowed. “May I?”

            There. He’d said it.

            It was strange, though, watching Victor in that moment.

            Victor’s face had gone ashen-white, unmistakably so even in the dim of the room. His eyes were stretched almost too wide, blinking just every so often. He barely breathed beneath Yuuri’s frame, while his heart beat out an erratic not-quite-pattern, smacking itself against Yuuri’s hand.

            Had Yuuri done something wrong? He didn’t quite think so. He refused to entertain the thought, lest he be sent into a panic and end up curled into a ball, comforted by his fiancé. _Again_. Like always. Like whenever Yuuri actually _pushed_ for a change and then started to balk at the follow-through. _No_. That was _not_ going to happen, not again. Not now. Not when Victor wasn’t _actually_ running away or glancing to the other end of the room or laughing and making a joke of things. So there was no reason to freak out. And this was important. This was worth it, whatever that _it_ may be.

            So Yuuri held his gaze for a long, long while. He waited as the rhythm of his fiancé’s heartbeat settled into something more even and he started breathing somewhat normally again. “I won’t know what I’m doing,” Yuuri continued belatedly, fighting to not fidget atop his fiancé, because _damn, what was going on,_ so he _had_ to say _something,_ “But even though it’s be my first time doing something like this, I promise I’ll—”

            “It’s mine, too,” Victor rasped out.

            _Huh?_

“W-What?” Yuuri hadn’t expected that. Victor had bottomed before…many times, with, _erm_ , many people. Yuuri knew that. They’d discussed those sorts of situations _many times_ over the past few weeks. “I…I don’t understand, Victor.”

            The elder male made a motion to turn his head, his cheeks going rosy in blotchy spots, but Yuuri didn’t let him, instead lifting his free hand from the mattress to cup the Russian’s smooth jaw and keep him looking forward, right into Yuuri’s chocolate gaze.

Victor went stiff. “No one…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, and Yuuri gently stroked his thumb against the Russian’s sternum, where his heart was tumbling over itself again. Yuuri’s chest felt sore. “No one has ever asked, not like _that_ …not with those sort of words.” Victor shuddered a little, squeezing his eyes shut, and Yuuri felt himself frown in response. “No one ever _asked_ to…to make love to me, you know,” Victor continued. “Gone ahead and _fucked_ me, yes. But—”

            “I will _not_ fuck you, Victor.” The word felt foreign and brittle in Yuuri’s mouth, like it didn’t belong there. It tasted all wrong—bitter and unforgiving. He sealed Victor’s lips with his own, soft and undemanding, and heard a squeak slip out. It prickled at Yuuri’s gut unpleasantly, like a warning. He pressed ahead anyway, trying to get the foul taste of _that word_ out of his mouth because _no. No, what the hell?_ Victor deserved _better_ than that. “You deserve all the love I can possibly give you. It’ll probably be awful the first time, and messy, and awkward, but I will _make love to you_ , if you’ll let me.”

            Silence.

_I won_ _’t fuck you_ , he all but shrieked to himself, to Victor’s silence, to Victor’s fearful face. _That_ _’s not what I want. Victor, don_ _’t you know? I love you. I would never just_ _…just fuck you, dammit. Never._

Yuuri waited.

And waited.

Victor breathed.

“Okay.”

            At that, Yuuri felt himself go limp, falling onto his fiancé’s body, who huffed into his hair. He felt the tiniest of tremors, and wondered if Goofy Victor was back, if Victor was laughing. He pushed himself up by the elbows, still letting everything else touch, but allowing him a clear view of his fiancé’s face from just a few inches away.

            Victor wasn’t laughing.

His eyes were _wet_.

_Crap._

            “V-Victor, what’s wrong?” Panic wanted to brew in Yuuri’s gut, but he pushed it back, only allowing a fragment of it to twist deep in his chest, right in the spot where it was pressed against Victor’s.

            “Why—” He cleared his throat, right knee jerking, “Why did you ask that _now?_ ”

Victor sounded…kind of… _broken_. His voice was hoarse. It broke like a fourteen-year-old.

_Eh? What? Why_?

            Yuuri blinked down at him. “I…sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

            “You’re soft.” _Deadpan_ , like he was telling off Georgi for the tenth time.

Wait.

What? _What?_

Yuuri didn’t dare move, but he could still _feel_ and—

            Oh.

_Oh_.

It seemed like Yuuri had gone mute. Nothing would come out of his mouth.

            Victor squirmed. “And I am too.” The Russian man looked… _odd_ when he said that. Yuuri hadn’t ever seen that expression on him before. Never.

            “Well, yeah,” Yuuri responded slowly, untying his tongue with difficulty. He wriggled his hips against Victor’s, letting his softness press further into the warmth of his nearest thigh. There was something about it that was an odd sort of comfort to Yuuri, the same way their shared showers and cuddles on the couch had become.

Maybe…maybe it wasn’t the same for Victor.

“Of course; that’s the point,” Yuuri decided to say.

            Victor’s face wasn’t blank; it was confused again, and a little hurt. _Crap._ “What?”

            “I asked if I could make _love_ to you,” Yuuri stated, matter-of-factly. “I wouldn’t ask that while we were both…you know, in _that_ state.”

            Victor was still looking awfully befuddled, which got Yuuri’s insides all confused, too. “Why not?”

            “Ah, see, because it’s about _love_ , Victor. Because I want _you_.” He put the emphasis on the _you_ on purpose. He shrugged a little: it wasn’t about the _want_. It was about _Victor_ , after all. Did he get that? Yuuri hoped so. “And well, you know, I-I love you, so…” He coughed, self-conscious which was kind of _stupid_ because…well…

            Whatever.

            Yuuri stared down at Victor’s face. He tried to take a steady breath.

            _Two plus two is four. The sky is blue. Makkachin is God_ _’s gift to the world. I love Victor._

Easy. Right?

Yuuri could feel his face and shoulders relax.

_Yeah_.

            Realization bloomed like a sunrise across Victor’s face and overflowed through his eyes, which started leaking tears like small saltwater fountains.

            Both of Yuuri’s hands reached up to hold Victor’s face rather automatically, cradling it like the most precious thing in the world. He planted a kiss at the center of Victor’s chest, over his thumping heart, like it was the most precious thing in the world. He beamed at his fiancé and pressed their foreheads together, like _Victor_ was the most precious thing in the world. Victor smiled up at him.

            It felt…pretty good, seeing Victor smiling like that.

            Victor breathed, still smelling of obnoxious-mint _conbini_ toothpaste. “Okay.” The affirmation was shaky, but his lips were quirking up in a barest hint of a smile. “Now?”

            “Whenever you want.” Another easy, obvious thing, this time said against Victor’s own lips. _Two plus two is four. Katsudon is delicious. Yuuri loves Victor._ “There’s no rush, you know, so…whenever you want to, we can try.”

            Victor finally chuckled, and finally moved to wrap his arms around Yuuri’s sides, tenuous but then insistently grasping at Yuuri’s back. “Okay then, Yuuri…now is good.”


	2. Part Two: Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yuuri wasn’t taking control the way he’d anticipated at all—where was the Eros monster he’d seen on the ice only a few months ago? He wasn’t being done by Yuuri. Yuuri wasn’t just taking what he wanted, which would be so much easier. He kept not-quite-stopping to tend to Victor’s tears, to soothe his frazzled edges and calm the stutters of his heart, never pulling away but always giving Victor a way out.
> 
> Which was a nice gesture, sure, but Victor didn’t exactly want out, not really. And it was all taking too long and Victor had too much space to think and he kept feeling things much farther north than where the action should be happening but wasn’t.
> 
> So no, it wasn’t getting better."
> 
> It's their first time going all the way and things...well, they aren't going the way Victor had thought they would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this particular installment has been several months in the making...it's taken far too long to get this updated here, so my deepest apologies to my ever-patient readers!
> 
> It turns out that this week is also NSFW Victuuri week, so I'm happy to be able to finally post this bit as an timely (?) offering.
> 
> There are probably as many takes on their first time doing-the-do as there are grains of sand on Huntington Beach...but this is my take. Full of angst and closeted demons and crying and...well, you'll see.
> 
> Go forth to weep, to possibly be terribly mad at me for penning such heartbreaking trash, and hopefully enjoy the ride to the happy (?) ending (?).

            It was eight forty-eight; Victor had just happened to catch sight of the alarm clock on the nightstand. So they’d already been at this for…what, _twenty_ _minutes?_ How was that even possible?

            Normally, they would be done with _everything_ after twenty minutes. Some kissing, some touching, some cleanup. Easy. Twenty minutes, tops—Yuuri was easy, quick, and practical, after all. Like clockwork.

But heck, the last time Victor had been topped— _shit_ , he didn’t want to think about _any_ last times, _goddammit_ , he was with _Yuuri_ right now, not some stupid, drunken one-night-stand in a seedy hotel bathroom—he’d _finished_ after twenty minutes. Yet here he was, with Yuuri, making out like a couple of clumsy teenagers, but without all the hurry from raging hormones or the fear of being caught by a janitor.

Definitely not like clockwork.

            Victor had rushed off to the bathroom to prep a little bit a while ago, pointedly not looking at himself in the mirror, while Yuuri had muttered something about getting _things_ ready with the most _endearing_ pink hue dotting the apples of his cheeks. The Japanese man had been glancing at their nightstand rather pointedly and _oh_ , he meant _those_ types of things. Which was seriously kind of _adorable_ , and kind of _hot_ , because _sexy things_ and _Yuuri_ rarely occurred together seamlessly without some sort of stumbling apologies and embarrassed mumbling unless alcohol was involved. So this was a rather _new_ kind of Yuuri.

            Not unwelcome, just new. Right?

            So it should have been _hot_. _Very_ hot, really. But as Victor had reached under the sink for some wipes in the back corner of the cabinet—knowing he probably didn’t _really_ need to do anything, since he usually kept himself pretty damn clean _just in case_ something like this was going to happen—well…

            Well, he’d felt nothing but the frantic buzz of his heart, rapping against his breastbone like his ribs were too confining, and with some sort of pathetic quiver in his fingertips as they lingered at the waistband of his underpants. Which was stupid—really, _really stupid_ —because he _wanted_ this, damn it! He prepped himself almost every night something like this, the back of his mind secretly _hoping_ for something like this, biting his tongue and chewing on the inside of his left cheek while Yuuri was showering and _imagining_ something like this, and…

            Well, maybe he was just nervous because this was _Yuuri_. Or it was the anticipation of _knowing_ that he’d _wanted_ this for so long and was finally, _finally getting it._

Or because he hadn’t…well, he hadn’t _done_ something like this in a rather long while.

            Yeah, that was it.

Yeah! It would get better. And quickly, for sure! So if he could just get himself out of the bathroom—which no, he hadn’t _really_ needed to go to in the first place, so why the _hell_ had he been standing there anyway, staring at his sallow reflection in the mirror and clutching at his chest with his briefs halfway down his thighs—then everything would be fine. It would get better.

It would get better.

            That’s why he’d made himself content with a nice make-out session. For a while. But it was _eight forty-nine_ now, after all, so were things _actually getting any better?_

            He was only at half-mast. So was Yuuri. But that was kind of understandable, Victor thought, because every so often, caught up in the insane _gentleness_ of Yuuri’s touch on his sides and hips and the oh-so _gentle_ press of their parts, freed of their pants and undergarments, Victor would…well, Victor would start _crying_.

            He kind of hated it.

Scratch that: he _definitely_ hated it. Seriously hated it. Hated _himself_ and whatever was wrong with his tear ducts for causing it. What kind of lover starts _crying_ over such small things as a grabbed ass or a tangle of tongues? These things were nothing _new_ , after all. And he was probably killing whatever mood they were having…or okay, well, maybe not. Since, was there even a _mood_ in the first place? Victor didn’t feel like there was.

It was odd…the whole thing was odd, really.

He was crying— _crying_ _—_ into Yuuri’s wet, welcoming mouth.

Sexy? Definitely not.

Someone had replaced all of Victor’s blood with mercury. He was sure of it. It was toxic in his veins. It burned, it _ached_ , it made him want to scream and throw a fist into the pillow beneath his head. It made his heart skip and stutter, lead-heavy in his chest under Yuuri’s hand.

He _hated_ it.

Yuuri knew what was going on, right? Didn’t he _feel_ it? That Victor wasn’t _feeling_ the way he should, wasn’t _responding_ the way he should? Couldn’t he tell that Victor was doing everything _wrong_? That he was screwing everything up?

Yuuri was _fine_ —dear, sweet, precious, _pure_ Yuuri, who’d never screwed a man in his life, was doing everything he should. Everything he _could._ Maybe in an odd sort of way, sure, but his kisses were textbook-fine, even with Victor’s tears taking their sweetness and turning the whole thing _salty_. His touches were fine, too—pinches on Victor’s hips, little pinky-massages along the bumps of his spine, the barest drag of blunt nails across his ribs. His murmurs of encouragement were fine, all hushed and breathy and _hot hot hot_ against Victor’s goosepimpled neck.

But they were too gentle. Too…too _something_. Something that should be _fine_ because it’s Yuuri and Yuuri was doing this out of love, Victor _knew_ that, but it was making _Victor_ react _all wrong_. Instead of moaning and screaming like an animal set free, he was crying and whimpering _like a child._

And worse, Yuuri was still only half-hard.

Victor hated it.

 _Wait_. Wait, _shit._ No, no, _no_ , he didn’t hate Yuuri’s member, of course not! Not the very thing he’d _fantasized_ over months ago, not the thing he practically _drooled_ over during showers and dinners and their morning coffee when it would tent the younger man’s sweatpants with morni—

 _Hah. Shit._ Of course he didn’t hate it. He _adored_ it.

He didn’t hate its state, either. It was beautiful, it was lovely, it was absolutely, gorgeously _fine,_ even at an awkward, pitiable, surely _uncomfortable_ half-mast. It was supple and warm and worthy of an artist’s brush.

But Victor _hated_ that Yuuri wasn’t _there_ yet. That half-mast was all that Victor was bringing him to.

And it was Victor’s fault. He knew it.

He felt his heartbeat stutter again—an awkward teenager onstage reading Shakespeare for the first time—and Yuuri stopped again like clockwork— _hah!_ _—_ and _goddamnitall_ Victor was going to _cry_ again. _Shit_.

Sex was supposed to be _hot_ and _desperate_ and _aggressive_. Victor was supposed to feel alluring and tempting and _delicious_ and Yuuri was supposed to _take_ him like the powerful Eros beast that he _surely_ was. Yuuri was supposed to _possess_ him. Grip him by the shoulders, fling him across the bed, pin his wrists. Tell Victor to _man up_ and _get a grip_. Ignore his _stupid crying_ and yank him back and _take him already._

Instead, Yuuri’s hand was running through Victor’s hair the way the Japanese man would pet Makkachin early in the morning. He was making eye contact and asking Victor to _breathe, please, take it easy, it_ _’s okay, just breathe, Victor,_ because apparently, he wasn’t. _Ha._ Yuuri wanted to know if it was still okay to proceed for the _umpteenth time_.

_Ha ha._

Because Victor _didn_ _’t have his shit together_. Because Victor was falling apart over _nothing_. _So funny. Ha ha ha._

            Yuuri wasn’t taking control the way he’d anticipated at all—where was the Eros monster he’d seen on the ice only a few months ago? He wasn’t being _done_ by Yuuri. Yuuri wasn’t just _taking_ what he wanted, which would be _so much easier_. He kept not-quite-stopping to tend to Victor’s tears, to soothe his frazzled edges and calm the stutters of his heart, never pulling away but always giving Victor a way out.

Which was a nice gesture, sure, but Victor didn’t exactly _want_ out, not _really._ And it was all taking _too long_ and Victor had too much space to _think_ and he kept _feeling things_ much farther north than where the action _should_ be happening but _wasn_ _’t._

So no, it wasn’t getting better.

It got more frustrating each time they started again: the third time, the fourth time, _ha,_ and the fifth—

            Victor froze the fifth time. It was like a puzzle piece clicked into place. Yuuri’s mouth was on his neck, working on putting a lovely sort of mark there. Yuuri’s left hand was between Victor’s clean-shaven thighs, stroking the creamy flesh of his inner legs ever so gently. But Yuuri’s right hand was still planted over Victor’s heart, like some kind of anchor.

            An anchor for _whom,_ though?

Victor took a startled, jilted breath as a finger brushed his tip and Yuuri stopped, drawing back just far enough to look deep into Victor’s teary eyes.

            “You keep stopping,” Victor charged simply, trying and failing not to sound cross. He nudged Yuuri’s half-softness with his knee, like an accusation. The toxins running in his blood still bit and stung and made his chest ache, and now he felt _guilty_ over the action too, _damn it,_ because that definitely seemed like he was critiquing Yuuri’s manhood. Which he _wasn_ _’t, damn it._

It was eight fifty-three, according the clock on the nightstand, which had been oh-so-gently mocking him this whole time. Now, it made his breath seize.

He expected Yuuri to say something like _You_ _’re crying_ or _I_ _’m scared I_ _’m doing this wrong_ or _I_ _’m not actually comfortable with this and I want to stop but I don_ _’t want to disappoint you_. Because of _course_ Yuuri would be worried about Victor, or would push himself to do this even though he didn’t _really_ want to, or was afraid of stopping _for_ _Victor_ _’s sake_ because he _fucking loves him_ and Victor knows it.

If Yuuri was anything like any of Victor’s prior bedmates, he would probably have smacked him upside the jaw for his behavior by now. Which might be kind of hot and might get Yuuri at least a _little_ harder and get things moving a _little more normally._

            But Yuuri didn’t. He didn’t say any of those things. He didn’t even _move._

            “I love you,” Yuuri replied simply after a moment, expression genuinely curious. He brushed aside the wet trails on Victor’s cheeks for at _least_ the fifth time since they’d stripped down. His eyes asked for something. _Pleaded. Begged_.

            It was the same look Yuuri would give Victor from across the rink, too far away to shout but seeking guidance when he felt lost as to what to do next.

 _Tell me what you want_ , those eyes said. _Give me a task._

 _Ah,_ because Yuuri was good with tasks. Right. Give him directions and he could do _anything_ , anxiety and injury and _the world_ be damned. _Right._

            The acid-laced anger in Victor’s bones fell out in a rush. _Okay,_ he thought. It was time to _actually_ communicate again, wasn’t it? He swallowed hard; he hadn’t actually said much of anything from the moment Yuuri’s mouth had captured his like a shy bride, he realized. “Don’t stop,” he commanded, even as his body felt like it was sinking too deeply into the mattress, being swallowed up by softness that it didn’t want. “Even if I’m crying, don’t. I’ll tell you if we need to slow down.”

            “Promise?”

            _What?_

Yuuri was holding his gaze, not shyly, not afraid, not with reluctance. His hair was slicked back from his face, and he looked so _very_ serious.

This wasn’t the Yuuri in Hasetsu, gaping up at Victor’s naked body in the bath. This was Yuuri at the end of his free skate, hand extended, chest heaving, ignoring the roar of the crowd to search for Victor’s face with his weak vision.

Victor’s heart stumbled against Yuuri’s hand again, and he wanted to curse it, but Yuuri leaned down to press their foreheads together, and somewhere in the near-black of his eyes, Victor saw something else.

            _I think you_ _’re beautiful. I want you to be happy. I want you to know that I love you. I_ _’ll take care of you._

            He couldn’t hear Yuuri’s voice in his head; Yuuri hadn’t really said those things aloud before, after all. But he said them all the time: in letters, on sticky notes, in the glide of his body as he obeyed Victor’s coach-mode barks, in the arms that took him in every night without fail—

Victor heaved a long, heavy breath.

            “I promise.” Victor reached for Yuuri’s right hand to plant a kiss to the ring on his finger. That earned him one of his favorite crinkly-eyed smiles, and the world somehow started tumbling back into place.

Victor kept crying on-and-off, but his heart stopped skipping so much, choosing to run like a heavy freight train instead, steadily forging a path toward Yuuri’s own through their skin and bones. It wasn’t exactly a _bad_ feeling.

 _You_ _’re beautiful,_ Yuuri would murmur when tears would make their appearance again, plunging his tongue further into Victor’s mouth and grabbing his hips harder in _exactly_ the right places to bring even more tears to his eyes. _You don_ _’t have to keep quiet, it_ _’s okay, I_ _’m not keeping quiet either,_ Yuuri would chuckle into his ear, which somehow helped, too.

Okay, so things were getting _better_. Finally.

Yuuri eventually pulled away just enough reach for the nightstand, fumbling through the middle drawer.

His hands shook predictably on the condom, and _ah_ , yes, _there_ was his Yuuri, looking rather like a newborn foal as he clumsily slipped himself in. For a moment, his cognac eyes were shuttered closed as he sat pin-straight, perched atop Victor’s hot groin like a bird, drawing deep, even breaths. Victor watched his chest lurch with effort and the muscles along his stomach shift and clench, and felt something fond wash over him.

The beautiful one right then was _Yuuri_ , after all.

But Victor still wondered if this was all _wrong,_ all _out of order_ —a tiny pinprick of a memory, the voice of _experience_ , reminding him of being stretched first. _Hurriedly_ , with chill, dry hands, not quite enough to prevent that sharp, almost tearing feeling that he’d _feel_ all through the next day. It was burning, searing heat followed by _cold_ and _quiet,_ because his partner would withdraw to prepare _themselves_ at that point, growling commands all the same from a distance.

 _Damn, why am I thinking about that?_ Victor grit his teeth. He was in his _bed,_ for crying out loud. _His and Yuuri_ _’s bed._ And Yuuri wasn’t going anywhere. Right? _Stupid fucking brain. Leave me alone._

When Yuuri opened his eyes again, his gaze—though slightly hooded with lust that was familiar as an emotion but foreign on Yuuri’s typically innocent face—was trained solely on Victor. Like Victor was a cast of _David_ , clean and exposed; a copy of _Anna Karenina_ , pages laid open and spine stretched till it crackled. His hands were so soft, so gentle, as they maneuvered him around on the mattress, befitting a fine piece of art newly placed in a curator’s care.

Was that _appropriate?_ For Victor’s body, maybe—he’d modeled from time to time, after all.

Yuuri’s fingers were plenty slick—he may have even overdone the lube a little bit, but the realization of how _careful_ Yuuri was being, too afraid to potentially hurt Victor but not afraid enough to back away entirely…

_Damn._

It wasn’t _fear_ at all that was driving Yuuri’s actions at all, was it? Was it a sense of _duty?_ Some sort of chivalry?

 _Hmm,_ no. It didn’t look like it. It definitely didn’t _feel_ like it.

It wasn’t lust, either; it was too slow, too tender, too _sweet._ But not _saccharine_ —Victor knew exactly what _that_ was like, in nicer hotel suites and restaurant bathrooms _._

_Yech._

Yet it wasn’t _want_. It wasn’t _desire._ It wasn’t _taking_.

Nothing made sense.

_Nothing. Made. Sense._

_Was this even sex at all? Really? Was it?_

The thought hit Victor like a brick to the face. It felt really weird; it made Victor’s chest feel tight, his throat constrict, and those _damn tears_ start up all over again.

Something in him still wanted to believe…believe that _something_ in this was okay, because Yuuri’s gaze was so adoring, and his expression so open and vulnerable and his voice all raspy and soft as he asked _again_ if Victor was alright, if it hurt, if it felt good, _what_ _Victor_ _wanted._ But all of his experience said this was wrong. Wrong, wrong, _wrong._ Because Yuuri was supporting the small of Victor’s back with his free hand and rubbing little circles into the delicate flesh there, which was _completely_ _unnecessary_ , _what the hell?_ Because this _couldn_ _’t_ be easy on Yuuri, doing things this way. _Just look at him_ : there was _no way_ Yuuri was enjoying this. _Look at his face! He_ _’s too focused. He_ _’s too worried._ And his body— _look at his body! Goddammit._ He was so flushed, _so flushed_ , so _tense_ , wound up like a Jack-in-the-box but not allowed to spring open.

Yuuri was enduring _so much, too much, goddammit,_ because Victor was being _fucking difficult_ this _entire time_. Because Victor was acting like some terrified, virgin bride. Because Victor was leaving Yuuri to fumble around Victor’s body _alone_ , second-guessing every stroke of their members and every kiss and every nibble on his earlobe. Because Victor felt anything but _hot_ and _sexy_ and…

And…

And Victor didn’t feel like a _thing_.

Victor felt like _Victor_ and it was _terrifying._

_Fucking. Terrifying._

_Shit._

“Victor,” Yuuri murmured, breath impossibly hot on his cheek. He was speaking right into the Russian’s ear. “Victor, please, just talk to me. Please. Talk to me, _say something,_ or I’ll start talking at you, and I don’t know what I’ll say. _Please_.”  
            Oh. Was Yuuri unsure, _now?_ Now? Fucking _now? Damn it all._ Victor was the elder of the pair, the more experienced. He should be _helping_. He should be _encouraging_ his Yuuri— _his_ Yuuri, his precious—

His, his sweet—

His…his _wonderful_ …his…

-

Victor’s mind went blank.

It just…stopped.

-

What?

-

_What?_

-

_Fuck._

“Then talk,” he croaked, thoughtless. His voice was taciturn, raw edged and sore. Not like he’d been screaming his brains out. Just.

Just _cold._

Yuuri drew a harsh breath against the side of Victor’s neck.

Victor felt nothing.

“I.” Yuuri swallowed, thickly, like there were rocks in his throat, though his voice was strong, deafeningly so with his lips against the shell of Victor’s ear. “Love. You.” He fumbled for Victor’s hand with his own—the one that wasn’t dripping with lube, thankfully. He grabbed it with an uncharacteristic harshness that made Victor wince, and pressed Victor’s fingers into the side of his own neck until his fingertips were digging deep into the delicate flesh there, against his jugular.

He was shaking. Yuuri was actually _shaking._

Victor still felt nothing.

_Fuck._

“You’re beautiful, Victor. You’re amazing, you know that. I’ve never wanted to be with anyone more—never really _wanted_ anyone at all. Not until there was _you_.” Was Yuuri…crying?

_Fuck._

Victor still felt nothing. Nothing but nothing.

“I love you. I love you _so goddamn much_ , do you even _know?_ _”_ He hissed a breath, grinding against Victor slowly, as though he couldn’t help but move. “Do you know how much I love being with you? Sharing a bed with you? Making coffee with you? Walking Makkachin and getting groceries with you?”

Victor was overwhelmed. Mentally, at least. Short-circuiting. He tried to turn the words over in his head, but he kept getting distracted by the sound of his love’s terribly rough breaths and the ungodly rush of his pulse under his fingers.

This was a man deep in the pit of lust, right?

Maybe?

“Yuuri,” he managed, “I don’t…I don’t understand.” He wasn’t about to cry again, _damn it,_ he _wasn_ _’t._ Why should he cry? He wasn’t even _feeling anything._ Thinking, yes. Feeling, no. “Tell me that you want me.”

 _Do you want me?_ was what his heart was saying, _screaming,_ somewhere in the silence, but Victor wasn’t about to give up what little morsel of pride he had left. _Nope_.

“I want _you_.” The words flew out of Yuuri’s mouth instantly, but the emphasis was all wrong.

Wrong, wrong, _wrong._

Yuuri didn’t _want_ him?

Yuuri didn’t _want_ him.

 _Shit_. Victor screwed his eyes shut. He couldn’t look at Yuuri’s face.

“No, no, you don’t _understand_. Yuuri—”

“Victor, just calm down, please—”

“No, shut up! Yuuri, you need to—”

“ _Victor._ ” It sounded like a command; Victor’s tongue froze at it, though his body still squirmed. “ _You_ need to _breathe_.”

Yuuri was scratching at his scalp, just behind his ear, where Victor usually loved it most in the early morning hours, when sleep was dripping off them both and they lazily greeted a chilly St. Petersburg sunrise and everything was wonderfully _fine_ and _normal_ and—

He _hated_ it right now.

Ah, but at least he could _feel_ something now. Even if it was _hate._

Yes, _yes_ he _hated_ this right now. _Hated it. Hated it all._

Because Yuuri wanted him to _calm the fuck down_ and _fucking breathe_ when they were supposed to be _just fucking_.

_Oh._

_Shit._ He wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.

“Victor.”

No. No no no no _no. Shit shit shit. Fuck_ , not that voice, _not that fucking tone of voice, no_ —

“Victor, _please_ , look at me. Just _look_ at me. Please?”

Yuuri sounded almost as scared as Victor felt and it _wasn_ _’t fair what the fuck no shitshitshitjustscrewmesideways_ and _nothisisn_ _’tokayfuckinghellshitshitSHIT_.

Something wet landed on Victor’s face, sliding down to his chin where it itched something fierce, and he knew he should just _fucking open his eyes, goddammit_ , because now Yuuri was _crying_ and it was _all_ _his fault_.

But he couldn’t. He just _couldn_ _’t._ He couldn’t _fucking open his eyes._

Hell, he didn’t even _want_ to. Not really. He _knew_ that he _should_ , because Yuuri was his _fianc_ _é_ and Victor loved him so much. _So fucking much._ But he _couldn_ _’t_.

He just.

Couldn’t.

But he was supposed to take care of Yuuri. _His_ Yuuri. His _fianc_ _é._ The other half of his heart. The hand that held his on long walks with Makkachin and the arms that held his body up when his knees went wobbly and—

Ah, _fuck._ He was supposed to _take care of his fianc_ _é._ Who was _crying,_ because of Victor himself, _damnitalltohell._

But he _couldn_ _’t._

_So selfish, Victor. So. Fucking. Selfish._

He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t enough air in the room, and what little air there was felt like needles in his throat. He couldn’t handle it. The very _air,_ heavy with sweat and citrus shampoo and _Yuuri_ himself was _assaulting_ him.

So he retreated further, flinging a hand to his face to block it from Yuuri’s view and—

Oh, _fuck_.

He heard it.

A slap.

He’d slapped Yuuri, hadn’t he. Actually _hit_ him.

In the face.

Of _course_ in the face, _fuck,_ Victor knew the feel of that face like he knew his own name.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

His eyes shot open belatedly. The needles in his throat turned into angry bees, swarming in his lungs, shredding his flesh appropriately.

Yuuri immediately sat back onto his own heels. Victor’s whole body went cold. He wanted a blanket to cover his naked self, to _smother_ _the_ _fucking_ _life_ out of it and just let him sink into some bottomless hole to die in.

This was it. This was _it. Over,_ it was _over._ All over.

Done. Over.

There was no way— _no way in hell_ —that they were finishing this.

And where would they be in the morning? Was this…was this _it_? Was this, _all_ of this, _over?_

Of _course_ , it had to be. No one, not even sweet, selfless Yuuri— _especially_ sweet, selfless Yuuri, _good God almighty_ —could recover from sex _this bad._

And definitely not from being _struck_ when he’d done _nothing wrong._ No one should put up with that.

No one should have to recover from sex _this bad._ No one.

 _Especially_ not his Yuuri; his so-sensitive, nerve-ridden, pure-hearted _virgin_ Yuuri. This was too _much_ , too _awful_ , too—

“ _Victoru?_ ”

Victor looked up to _actually see,_ his neck making a crackling noise from the sudden motion; his eyes were already open, sure, but they’d been focused on the little raw, red mark on Yuuri’s left cheek, just below his eye.

It looked like a tattoo, left by the devil himself on the tender bosom of an angel.

“Do you…do you not want this, after all?” The shake in Yuuri’s voice shattered whatever pieces of Victor’s heart were still solid. _Crushed_ them. Crushed them into _dust_.

It was fitting, really. Victor _was_ dust, after all. _Fucking_ _useless_ _dust_.

Because _he_ did this.

 _He_ did this to Yuuri.

What an _asshole_.

His gaze stayed trained on that red spot. “Of course I do, Yuuri.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. This whole thing was tearing him apart, sure, but he _wanted_ to be intimate with Yuuri. He’d _wanted_ to be intimate with Yuuri for _so long._ He’d practically begged himself to _not beg for sex_ on a daily basis for the past _year._

And he didn’t want Yuuri to leave him in the morning.

Because that’s what was going to happen, right? Bad sex doesn’t repeat itself.

Ah, well, he didn't want to be where he was now either, on his back, cold and naked and with Yuuri's tears stabbing unrelentingly at his skin as they slowly dried.

This _had_ to be different, this _couldn_ _’t_ be like everything else. Yuuri wasn’t like everyone else. Right? He wanted to salvage this. He _had_ to salvage this. Yuuri was all he had.

Yuuri was all he had.

He didn’t know _how_ , but he couldn’t lose Yuuri. He just _couldn_ _’t_.

 _Fuck_ , Yuuri was _all he had._

He wanted to go back to the morning, innocently sprawled against his fiancé’s welcoming chest with Makkachin curled up at their feet, trading stupid jokes they’d read on the internet with their hands poking around each other’s skin thoughtlessly and fighting over who should get up first to make coffee.

 _Fuck,_ Yuuri was _all_ _he_ _wanted,_ too.

Yuuri’s brows were furrowed, a deep trench running along his forehead. “I don’t believe you.” He took a breath, face taking on that _look_ he wore when he was deep in thought.

How could he be _thinking_ at a time like this? Did the man even _see_ himself, strained into a too-tight condom, flushed all rosy down to his belly button with arousal and _need_ like something out a pornographer’s wet dream? Didn’t he _feel_ it?

In any other situation, Victor might have _laughed._

“Let me rephrase that.” Yuuri wiggled around a little, obviously trying to get comfortable. Somehow. _Ha._ It was almost comical, kind of _pathetic,_ if it weren’t so _ridiculously sad_ to watch _._ “If nothing in this relationship hinged on what we’re doing right now—which for the record, it doesn’t, you know,” he added and _how the fuck did he know_ that Victor was presently _freaking out_ _about_ _that very thought_ , “would you still want to…” He swallowed, trembled a little, but kept his eyes on Victor as he spoke. “Would you still want to have sex with me like this?”

Victor gulped a hefty dose of air. It stung like a papercut. “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you want to keep trying?”  
            “ _Yes_ , of course I do—”

“Then what do you need from me, Victor?” Yuuri’s eyes were terribly, _terribly_ soft, even if his voice wasn’t.

 _Everything,_ Victor’s mind supplied, helpfully. He was back to _feeling_ things again, _dammit_ , but now he was having a hard time _thinking_.

“Tell me…” Victor reached out, and Yuuri obediently shifted forward to hover over his bare, aching chest. _Tell me what?_ There were too many things. He didn’t even know half of them. He settled on the first one that came to mind. “Just tell me that you _want_ me.” He reached up to grasp at the younger man’s neck. The beat of his pulse felt like a tether to reality. A guarantee of honesty. Something of Yuuri’s to hold onto that was just as fragile as Victor felt.

If he was going to be flayed open like a wild rabbit by ravenous wolves, then so was Yuuri, dammit.

Yuuri blinked in surprise, quick and kitten-like. Then he smiled, brittle but honest. “I want _you_ ,” he huffed, almost like it was some kind of…some kind of _joke._ Like it was _amusing._ Like there was something obviously _funny_ that Victor wasn’t getting.

_What the hell?_

Victor felt frustration bubbling up again. He gripped the living pillar of Yuuri’s neck tighter, ignoring the wince it produced. The emphasis was _still_ wrong. Didn’t Yuuri _want_ him?

Still _wrong_ , _dammit_ —

Wait.

_Wait._

_Was_ it…was it _wrong?_

Was it?

Victor swore that his heart must have stopped; Yuuri’s kept going, a frantic waltz beneath Victor’s fingertips. His neck was probably starting to bruise.

He should probably feel at least a _little_ bad about that, but _oh well._

Yuuri leaned down, terrifyingly close, breath coming from some sort of overheated furnace and toasting Victor’s nose. “I. Want. _You_ ,” he repeated, voice a low growl. “I want you _because I love you_.”

Oh _. Oh?_

_What?_

"Do you understand?"

Yuuri’s sheathed length twitched against Victor’s thigh. God, it was warm. So, _so warm_. Yuuri fidgeted.

_Oh._

Victor started to nod.

“Say it,” Yuuri ordered, suddenly harsh, interrupting the gesture.

Victor blinked. “What?”

“Say it to me. Show me that you understand. I need to know that _you_ _know_ why we’re doing this.” _Or I_ _’ll stop right now and keep saying it until you understand it_ , went unspoken but insistent in Yuuri’s enormous, still-misty, coffee-colored eyes.

 _Oh_.

Yuuri waited. Watched. Reached up to hold Victor’s hand steady against his neck. Rubbed little circles into the back of Victor’s knuckles. Breathed into his ear.

Yuuri…Yuuri was staying.

_Staying?_

This was…okay? Things were…okay?

 _They_ were… _okay?_

“You…” Victor swallowed, breathed, drew in Yuuri’s intent gaze like it was air—air that didn’t stab at his chest, _thank God_. “You…love me.”

Yuuri…well, Yuuri _smiled_. Something _soft_. Impossibly, heartbreakingly fond and. So. _Soft._ “I do. Say it again?”

Victor made a grab for Yuuri’s neck again, firmly, nails scrabbling for purchase on sweat-slick flesh. The skin there stretched and wrinkled and pulled taught with the pressure, hot and alive in Victor’s grasp. Was Yuuri a life preserver in the ocean, or was Victor was a serpent coiled around a rabbit, stealing its life away? He wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. “You love me.”

Yuuri swallowed. Victor felt it. “Again.”

He tried more emphatically, this time: “You love me.” His own pulse thumped steadily in his ears; he wondered if Yuuri could hear it, too, as the Japanese man leaned even closer. Their noses were brushing.

“Again, Victor.”

 _Dear God._ “You _love_ me.” Victor could feel the edges of his own lips turning up in some misshapen sort of a smile. It felt kind of ludicrous, now, saying something like that over and over. Yuuri kissed each corner of his mouth. It tickled.

Yuuri’s eyes were bright, glistening like wet, polished river stones and _oh._ “Tell me, do I love you, Victor Nikiforov?”  
            “Y-Yes…”

“Yes, _what_?”  
            Victor found himself laughing at the quirk in Yuuri’s lips, which pressed into his own cheek, all wet and kind of gross and really just _ridiculous_. “Yes, _yes_ , you love me!”

“Okay.” Yuuri squirmed a bit again. “Do I _want_ you?” The words were spoken against his own lips: hushed, secretive, blazing hot, even though the shape of Yuuri’s lips was still an unmistakably _soft_ smile.

Victor’s breath caught, and the laughter stopped. “Yes, you… _want_ me.” He forced the words out, felt them rolling off his tongue, foreign.

“Why?” Yuuri stroked his cheek, delicately, even as Victor’s grip on his neck tightened further. “ _Why_ do I want you? Tell me.” His gaze was prodding, no less firm as each second ticked by.

He sucked in a breath. “Because…you _love_ me?”

And then Yuuri was _beaming_. Not like the sun, blinding and searing; rather like the joyous, dancing moon, supple and steadily radiant. Cooling what the fire had burned. Like poultice on a dog bite. He planted a long, wet kiss to Victor’s mouth with nothing intrusive, nothing demanding. No tongue or teeth. No fire. No sparks. Just steadily _there._ “That’s _much_ better,” Yuuri murmured, seemingly to himself, closing his eyes with a flutter of dark lashes, and shuddering in something like…relief?

_Relief?_

Oh.

_Oh._

So Yuuri…Yuuri was upset by all this, too? In his own way, sure, but…

 _Oh, duh. Stupid Victor._ Of _course_ he _—_

Victor stopped that line of thought. It wasn’t going anywhere productive, and he knew it. If he started down another guilt trip, Yuuri would surely figure it out and Yuuri…

No, Yuuri didn’t deserve that. Not after all that _work_ he’d just done.

Yuuri hadn’t even deserved half of the _crap_ Victor had put him through up to this point.

He pushed himself up by the elbows to snag Yuuri into another kiss, easing the grip on the man’s neck.

Yeah, if Victor let himself slip again into _that place,_ Yuuri would happily go right back to pushing Victor against the proverbial wall until nothing was left but _Yes, Yuuri loves me_ and _Yes, we can try again_ and _Yes, we_ _’ll be okay even if the sex is terrible_ all over again. He knew it.

He _knew_ it.

Yuuri let loose the _longest_ sigh, his body letting a puff of tension go floating up to the ceiling. Victor eyed his neck; how hard had he been hanging on? Would there be bruises in the morning?

Would Yuuri wear those bruises like a combat badge? Would he look at them the same way Victor looked at his own hips whenever Yuuri would leave marks, stroking them with disbelief and twisted appreciation the next day? Grinning like an idiot and shivering at the over-sensitivity and watching as the colors would shift from turquoise to white to pink when touched?

Yuuri’s neck probably hurt. His heart probably hurt, too, if the tears in the corners of his pretty whiskey-and-honey eyes were anything to go by.

But Yuuri was _still_ _here,_ kissing Victor senseless. Yuuri still wanted him. Still wanted to _do this._

Ah, because _Yuuri loves him._

That’s right. Yuuri _loves_ him.

So why not just stay _right there_ , with that brightly guiding star, that single thought wedging itself deeper into the crevices of his ribs and into his joints and into the dusty spaces in the back of his head…ah, why _not_ just get utterly _lost_ in Yuuri’s warmth and Yuuri’s breath and Yuuri’s touch in his hair and on his hips and _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri_ …

Ah.

 _Ah._ There. _There_.

Something clicked. Something _turned on_. Some switch, somewhere in the back of Victor’s head. All that warmth wasn’t just _outside_ of his body, felt by fingertips and swaths of bare skin.

It was _deeper_. It was moving _through_ him, pouring into him through his love’s heady gaze and whispers in garbled English and Japanese and kisses that tasted as salty as the ocean, and then escaping out again as he started to reach for Yuuri’s neck again but pulled him down by the shoulders instead.

So _this_ …this wasn’t _taking,_ then. This wasn’t _fucking_.

Ha, hmm, this _definitely_ wasn’t fucking.

This was…

Oh _God._

This was _love_. Right? This was Yuuri _loving_ him, wasn’t it? This was Yuuri _wanting_ him not because he was _Victor Nikiforov, the_ Victor Nikiforov, not because he was charming or suave or a _beautiful piece of meat_ , but because he… _he_...

Because he _loved_ Victor.

_Oh._

_Oh. Well. Okay._

_Okay._

Victor felt it. He could see it. Taste it on his tongue, between the crevices of Yuuri’s mouth and the syllables getting lost on Yuuri’s lips.

_Wow._

This was _okay._

Victor didn’t feel like something beautiful and charming and suave and sexy and hot…

Victor felt like _Victor._

Like the _person_ that Yuuri _loved_.

_Wow._

_Wo-ow._

_Damn,_ it felt kind of weird, still, but _damn._ How the _hell_ had he gone his whole life without this? Without touches that didn’t _sear_ and _burn_ and _mark_ but instead _filled him up_ to bursting, _satisfied_ the hungry corners of his brain _,_ made him downright _giddy?_ If this was love—and _good_ _God_ , there could be no other word for it, right?—then what the _hell_ had everything else been?

What the _fuck_ had _everyone_ _else_ given him?

 _Oh._ No, _shit, no,_ Victor didn’t want to answer that question; he’d _known_ the answer already, somewhere deep in his gut, every time he’d let himself be shoved down to his knees or thrown against a bathroom wall and allowed angry, grabby hands access to his fragile skin and frigid heart. He knew it.

Ah, yeah. _Fuck._ He knew it, all right.

He wouldn’t dwell on it. Couldn’t dwell on it. Not now. There wasn’t room for it anyway, not with the first thing on his mind being _Oh,_ and _this_ , and then nothing but _fuckinghellIlovethismansomuchIcan_ _’tevenbreatheholyshit_.

_Wow._

Yuuri took his time. Kept taking his time. And Victor was unraveling, loose at seams and with ragged edges to his every breath, but he didn’t feel like telling his fiancé to hurry up. _Couldn_ _’t be bothered._ He stopped looking at the clock on the nightstand—the damned device that had _tortured_ him earlier—and turned to bury his face in Yuuri’s chest instead, keeping and losing time with the rapid-fire but steady pace his love’s heart set.

Ooh, _God,_ that sounded _good. Great._ Yuuri sounded _great_ from right there. Could humans growl in a way that wasn’t angry? Yuuri could, apparently.

_Wow._

Were they even in the bedroom anymore? Were they in some other solar system, some other dimension?

 _Mmm._ That would be okay. Maybe in whatever dimension Yuuri brought them to, it was perfectly reasonable for one’s manhood to be so _deadly_ _hard_ and yet be so _damn soft_ everywhere else, like his hands on Victor’s sides and his mouth on Victor’s earlobe. Because _wow,_ and _good God_ , Yuuri was full of contradictions.

Yuuri started muttering something. Victor couldn’t make out what it was; was it in Japanese? With that tone of voice, it could have been something dirty. _Filthy_ , even.

Or something embarrassingly sappy, knowing the younger man.

Or perhaps, some obscene mixture of both. Victor grinned to himself rather wickedly at the concept: he’d like that. His length twitched in wholehearted agreement.

Victor kind of wanted to ask for a translation. But he also didn’t want to spook his love off. Though that was probably unlikely by this point, what with Yuuri’s fingers thoroughly buried up to his knuckles, nestled where they’d never been before. So instead, Victor pulled back just enough to look into Yuuri’s eyes, smiling but murmuring quite seriously, “I’m ready if you are”.

And he was, actually; he felt good. Relaxed. Like a perfect egg custard.

 _Ha,_ his brain was definitely in some other dimension, wasn’t it?

Yeah, he was relaxed. _Mmm_.

But definitely ready, if the monster between his legs and the loose, easy throb of his insides were any indication.

Yuuri let out a breathless chortle. "Do you think I'll _ever_ be ready for something like this, Victor?” he asked, eyebrows quirking playfully.

Oh, _there_ was his Yuuri again, a bit more confident than most days, sure, but still flirting with nerves in the background. Victor hadn’t missed the sudden tension zipping through his frame, hadn’t imagined the quick dart of his gaze to the side or how his fingers froze and twitched inside him. It was so _precious_ that he almost stopped right there to clutch the younger man to his chest and never let go.

“So long as you love me, you don’t have to be,” he said instead, without thinking about it first and _oh dear God_ , that had to have been the sappiest thing Victor had said in a long, long time. Which was saying something. But he had no time to worry over it, because suddenly Yuuri was pulling away, and beaming, and then laughing, and then half-kissing and half-nibbling Victor’s lower lip. Which was _delightful,_ really, and it made Victor giggle helplessly despite himself. And _then_ , before Victor could even catch his breath, Yuuri had maneuvered them both around a bit, and he was in.

…

… _In_.

He was…

He was _in._

Just like… _just like_ _that._

Just like… _that?_

That was…that was _it?_

_Wow. What the hell?_

_Good God Almighty_ , was it _supposed_ to be that… _easy_? Like putting on his favorite pair of worn-in leather gloves? Was it _supposed_ to make breathing ten times _easier_ than it had been all day, turning the air he stole from Yuuri’s mouth into sweet cream on his tongue? Was it _supposed to not hurt_?

Was it supposed to _not hurt?_

_Was it supposed to not hurt?_

Was he supposed to feel Yuuri’s pulse inside his own body like that, and feel his own shifting to match it? Was he supposed to _cry_ this much, mouth stretched wide in a smile to reassure his lover that _yes,_ everything was _actually okay_ , and actually _mean it_ because it was _better than okay?_ Because it _didn_ _’t_ _fucking hurt?_ Was he supposed to _laugh_ with his fiancé at the absurdity of it all? At the embarrassing noises and the lube that ended up in a shiny streak on Yuuri’s cheek and how his fiancé thought it would be a good idea to splutter bad pickup lines at Victor while peppering his face with tiny kisses?

What a surprise.

It was almost...kind of... _fun?_

_Wow._

_Fun._

_Fun?_

_Actually. Fucking. Fun._

_Wow. Fucking wow._

_Damn._

He found himself falling in love with the look on Yuuri’s face, all contorted and somewhere between tears and goofy laughter and something much more lewd. But Victor was also falling in love with how the tremors of his fiancé’s laughter shook through _him_ , too, like they were just two halves of the same body. And with how when Yuuri murmured something like _aishiteru kokoro kara_ , the words resonated straight through Victor’s chest and stole his breath and sunk into the back of his head. He didn’t even know what the words meant, but they still settled his heart, warming and cradling it like something precious and treasured.

Was all that _supposed_ to happen?

Victor didn’t care. Didn’t care if it was _supposed_ to be or not, because it _was_ happening. Because this angel above him was _one_ with him, smiling and mouthing _Victor, Victoru, suki dayo,_ into his sweat-slick gray hair even as he fumbled around, trying to find the places in Victor’s body that felt _good_ — _better than good,_ really. Victor himself was teary-eyed and screaming incoherently and biting harshly into his fiancé’s shoulder (he’d apologize for that later, he just couldn’t be bothered with much of anything at the moment that didn’t have to do with _Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri,_ and _yes, yes, yes_ ).

And Victor felt like…well, like _Victor_. Like Yuuri _knew_ him. Which, of course he did before but _oh_ , Yuuri _knows him_ now. Knows how he wheezes when he pants like _that_ and how his heart flutters _just so_ when his ass is squeezed and how he'll snort-laugh at his own strings of mangled Russian-and-French curses because they're not really sexy but translate more along the lines of _damn fucking rainbow-potato-eating monkey testicles,_ and _oh_ what _that one spot_ can do to make him fall apart into a pile of shivering thighs and grabby hands while giggling like a schoolgirl the whole time…

Yeah, _that_ was something Yuuri knew now.

Yuuri ran with it, laughing and nipping at Victor’s chest, tonguing at the dips and lines of his collarbones, like he was everywhere all at once. And Yuuri had great stamina; _fuck,_ Victor figured that he would, sure, but this was… _God,_ this was different. Different than he’d expected, different than he’d pondered and wet-dreamed over for a solid year-and-a-half.

It wasn’t Yuuri Katsuki stripped down to his briefs and supporting another man’s weight on a stripper pole. Not _that_ kind of stamina at all.

No, this wasn’t Yuuri attacking him like an animal and chasing Victor relentlessly; this was purely a matter of _control_. This was Yuuri holding on and holding back until Victor came undone, a babbling, screaming mess, and following not more than a breath later. This was Yuuri making sure not to press into Victor’s older, more experienced, more _tender_ body any harsher or any longer than absolutely necessary, it seemed. This was Yuuri watching Victor’s face like a hawk, sensing the beginnings of discomfort in Victor’s now-oversensitive, rubbed-raw insides around him. This was Yuuri settling down promptly with a sobbing-sigh to bury his face in Victor’s shoulders before going completely still.

 _How the hell_ did he _do_ that? It wasn’t too much. It was _just right_. Messy, sure; clumsy, definitely, but _right_.

Damn, it _wasn_ _’t too much._

Maybe it wasn’t really stamina. Maybe it was concentration, _focus,_ the single-minded _watchfulness_ that the Japanese man had trained on him every moment.

Victor had failed to consider that part of Yuuri in _any_ of his wet dreams. Even if he’d seen just about _every single day_ everywhere from the rink to the kitchen to scrubbing the bathroom floor and rearranging their bookshelves.

Whoops. Oversight?

It was a little mind-boggling, especially to a mind that couldn’t even do basic math if it tried.

_Mmm._

Yuuri was still collapsed on top of him, cheek pillowed atop Victor’s heaving chest, not bothering to withdraw just yet.

Victor kind of wished he _never_ would; the feeling was almost even _better_ than the act itself, somehow.

Yuuri had confided once—maybe a week ago—how much he enjoyed being _soft_ together. He had said that touches like that felt special and intimate, but not exactly _sexual_. That there few things as comforting as that sort of thing to him. Victor hadn’t really _gotten_ that, but had nodded along at the time, trying to be supportive and just happy that Yuuri was opening up about such things. But now…

Now it kind of made sense. All Victor was really aware of was Yuuri’s softness still nestled inside him, still feeling as though it just _belonged_ there, steady and cozy-warm and _full_ against all the places that _should_ ache and sting but somehow _didn_ _’t._ He didn’t really process much of the world beyond his fiancé’s hot breath fanning out over his collarbones, and the reckless beat of his own heart against Yuuri's face and how _good_ that felt. And how they were sweaty and sticky and slick and Victor felt…

He felt _alive_. He felt present. And he felt _Yuuri_ , too; that Yuuri was _alive_ and _present,_ right there with him. Ah, he could actually sort of _think_ a little bit now, without the all-consuming influence of passion and physical _need_ , and without the jabbing of those _thoughts_ that had crippled him earlier— _damn,_ he felt _free_.

Free to wrap his arms around his fiancé and murmur his name like a prayer. Free to jabber out some insipid love song in slurred, tone-deaf English, like a drunkard. Free to sink like a limp noodle into the sound of his lover breathlessly joining in because _that_ _’s_ _just_ _what they did anyway._

Even post-intercourse, apparently.

When Yuuri finally pulled away to pad out of the bedroom, Victor had a moment of unbearable _cold_ and the tiniest twinge of _panic,_ but it was completely unwarranted and he knew it.

_But still._

Yuuri returned promptly, hair looking like a black, bushy bird’s nest, pupils still blown wide but expression soft—so, _so_ soft, it almost made Victor tear up all over again—with a damp washcloth and a clean bed sheet in tow. Before Victor could gather his thoughts back together into something neat and tidy—since _when_ did a post-orgasm haze last _this_ long? _Damn_ —he had been wiped clean, dried off, and settled into a crisp, fresh sheet. Yuuri bundled him against his chest, and Victor almost bemoaned the lack of evidence of their activities, until he realized belatedly, with his nose buried in Yuuri’s clavicle, that the younger man still smelled of sex and sweat and dear _God_ , it was quite possibly the most comforting thing on the planet. Aside from the steady throb of Yuuri’s heart, of course, insistently speaking love into his ear. Just like always. And the arms holding him firmly in place, silently asserting that _Yes, I want you right here_. Nothing could top that.

Victor sighed.

_Wow_ _…are first times allowed to be that good?_

“I…I don’t know. Um, I take it, it was…o-okay?”

The sheepish voice of his fiancé startled Victor; had he actually said that aloud?

He should probably feel bad about that.

But he couldn’t. It was _true_. He laughed, airy and breathless, clutching at the one plush spot just above Yuuri’s hip that he had discovered halfway through his white fog of pleasure earlier. He _adored_ that spot, now; how had he gone so long without finding it?

“Yuuri, _moye lyubov,_ ” he breathed out against balmy, bare skin while hiking the covers further up his shoulders. His native language felt smooth on his tongue, like unsalted butter. He didn’t want to switch back to English. _Oh well._ “I don’t want to be touched by anyone else, ever again. Only you.” Victor felt _exhausted,_ and not just physically. But it wasn’t a terrible feeling.

Not at all.

It was as though his chest had been carved wide open and _something_ removed…or maybe a _lot_ of _somethings,_ really. The sorts of _somethings_ that, now that they were out in the open air where he could begin to ruffle through them, he started noticing—

They were sharp, weren’t they? They were cold. Intrusive. Full of nasty words. Maybe with crumbs of truth somewhere beneath the layers of _fuck it, you_ _’re being ridiculous, Victor Nikiforov,_ but _still_... _whoa._ Poking around just the edges of his thoughts felt like ruffling through scraps of metal from a junkyard that didn’t belong anywhere _near_ something as _soft_ as a beating human heart.

Not even his own?

_Hmm_ _…_

He distantly recalled the snarl of his own voice inside his own head. He didn’t want to bring the words back, not with how full and sated he felt now. He didn’t want the images that had kept intruding, the sensations of hands that devoured him and cast him aside only breaths later. But he _did_ wonder what Yuuri would have thought, if he had voiced those things instead of keeping them to himself.

Yuuri would probably have cried for him. And maybe yelled at the voice in his head, if he could, because…well, Yuuri doesn’t seem to approve of anything that threatens to hold Victor back from what he wants. Not even _himself_ —Barcelona proved that many times over.

Victor’s own head would certainly be no exception to the rule, all full of malicious thoughts, would it?

Victor started painting an image of Yuuri as a great bear, snarling at the dragons in his head with fire blazing red-hot like in his big, tarnished-bronze eyes. He could see Yuuri swiping gigantic, fantastically clawed paws at the intruders, with roars bigger and deeper than a lion’s whenever they got too close to Victor. He envisioned the Yuuri-bear gathering Victor close to himself, enveloping him in rich, thick fur and enough warmth to comfort all of Siberia.

He could picture himself, held close against the sturdy, powerful body, well out of harm's way. He could see the Yuuri-bear sending the dragons and their dark magic fleeing with just a sharp glance and a snort, and then turning those same eyes back to Victor himself, where they shifted to something more fitting of an adoring puppy, looking like he was about to cry and laugh at the same time.

The thought made him grin dazedly, uncaring of how he looked at that moment.

So Victor just took a minute and _breathed_. Deep. Slow. Luxurious. A little raw in his throat from all the crying and screaming, admittedly, but that was okay, somehow. His chest felt…lighter. Sore, yes; tired, definitely. But… _lighter_. Safer.

            _Safer._

The clock on the nightstand read ten-seventeen. It went completely unnoticed, ignored, forgotten. Victor was too busy poking at the occasional freckles and not-so-occasional hickeys on his love’s ribs.

“Yuuri…you make love with your whole heart, don’t you?” Sappy words; Victor felt what was probably a sappy smile accompanying them.

“I…I suppose I do?” A lingering kiss was pressed to the crown of Victor’s head. “I guess…maybe I can’t help it. I don’t know, you know I don’t know what I’m doing here, Victor, I mean—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Victor hummed for a moment, brooding, hoping that Yuuri didn’t feel as awkward as he had sounded just then. Because Victor didn’t feel awkward; just mushy and ready for a solid eight hours of sleep and a good long cuddle.

Not necessarily in that order.

He shifted so that his softness could brush against the not-quite-sharp point of Yuuri’s hipbone. _Oh,_ that _did_ feel _wonderful_. Yuuri was really on to something with that whole softness-is-nice bit. “I hope…” He stopped.

“You hope, what?” Yuuri prodded, removing his lips from Victor’s scalp. The image of bear-Yuuri returned to his mind’s eye.

Victor found himself beaming, blissful but feeling a bit fragile, like he was skating a favorite routine on shaking, overworked legs. “Well, I hope that, when _I_ make love to _you_ someday, that I can do the same.”

It was Yuuri’s turn to cry, apparently.

Victor swore he was _done_ ; he’d cried all night, practically. Yuuri could cry in his stead right now.

Right.

_As if._

“ _God_ , I love you,” Yuuri murmured between sobs, unfairly brushing tears off Victor’s cheeks for the umpteenth time that night. “ _So_ _much_. Do you know that?”

 _Psh_ , how ridiculous was _that_ , after everything that had gone on? Victor barely managed an “I know” and an “I love you too” before a set of raw lips crashed into his own for a kiss more heated and desperate and needy than any of the other kisses he’d received all day and in all their making-out and sex combined.

 _Oh, the irony,_ Victor mused, wearied and spent but more than willing to let Yuuri kiss him senseless again. Something _soft_ dragged along his midriff, and he fought back a chuckle in favor of carefully chasing Yuuri’s somehow-still-hungry tongue with his teeth.

Tired as he was, he had never felt more _wanted_ in his life than at that very moment.

And yeah, it was very much _okay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, we're not done yet: aftercare is important, after all, and we need to hear Yuuri's side of things too, yes? Stay tuned for The Morning After, featuring Anxiety-Brain!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated; thank-you to everyone who's followed this series thus far!


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